The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1887-05-04

was indissolubly mingled with her day
dreams; every moment in his presence
fseemed an hour of happiness to her.
These endearing words threw off the
restraint he had sustained, and in the
ardency of his fondness he drew her to
his side, and repeatedly kissed the pale,
upturned lips.
"Cora, you will be my wife" he said,
looking down upon her with unspeak-
able joy, as if the answer he sought was
already his.
She drew herself gently from his en-
brace and the gaze in her lovely eyes
appeared to pass over him to space be-
yond. She spoke as if in a dream.
THAT can never be-" she uttered, at
the same time throwing her arms about
him and sobbing bitterly, as if in deep
anguish.
TO be refused by woman who had
Just avowed herself in love seemed O
strange anomaly to him. A hundred
coniectures filled his brain at that
moment. Was her heart preocuppied
Was there a man on earth who adored
Cora Lane more than he did2 Why
could she not be his wife?
"Don't ask me why, John. 1t is
better for us if we see each other no
more. Forgive me if I make you un-
happy, but it can never be; to be your
wife would only bring sorrow and dis
tress to our home"
Her enigmatical words puzzled him.
"Cora, dearest, will forgive everything.
We will start life anew; blot the past
from your sight; ouly say you will be
mine"
She strove to answer, but the profound
anguish in her bosom Knocked all efforts
to scorn. The look of melancholy sad
ness that ovcrsprcad her entire features
told Harlow that his love was hopeless.
When he left that night with the arrow
of deep disappointment sunk deep into
his breast she cXacted VOW from him
never again to broach the subject of
matrimony; but he left her with the sorry
assurance that she loved him better than
any one on earth.
For a week Harlow never left his
room. His sprightly, gay spirits vanished,
and long fits of detection supervened.
If Bertha suspected the cause of the
change in his appearance she never be-
trayed it. He pleaded an attack of
malaria, to which he said he was victim /;
this was all he offered in explanation of
his moodiness.
At the end of his hermitage longing
desire to see his love again reasserted
itself. He tore himself from his seclusion
and went to her house.
When he entered, to his bewildered
CONSERVATION he learned she had left the
city.
A note was handed him by the lady of
the house, which she gave him at Cora's
request. He tremblingly tore open the
envelope. The note read as follows:
"In three years. Cora"
Every one of those words seemed as if
written in fire. He was mystifed be-
yond reason. The thought, "Was she
trifing with his affections3" took the
place of all other considerations. But
where was the motive2 The more he
cogitated over the short note the more
he clothed it with an occult meaning.
He left the house, repaired to his
room, and in the wreck of his life's hap
piness wept poignant tears of woe.
The Occident had no more charms for
him; he determined to return East in the
course of a fortnight.
He left San Francisco an altered man
and returned to his home, but the
thought of Cora, ever present in his
mind, drew a veil of sadness over his
whole life. Some months afterward he
finished his law studies and entered up
on his chosen profession.
At the end of three years his life was
just as void of happiness as the day
when Cora told him it could never be.
He resolved at last to once again visit
the West and learn, if possible, her
whereabouts.
When he arrived at San Francisco he
called at the house where he had last seen
her; she had never been heard from, and
as far as the good lady could enlighten
him she might be dead. Mrs. Wentworth
and her daughter told the same despair
ing story-she had almost dropped from
their memory.
The one great object of life now was
to find her and learn from her own lips
the meaning of those odd words: Sin
three years"
If he failed-alas! he dared not con-
template the consequences. Find her he
would, if it took years of constant search.
Such is the love of some men, who in
their constancy sacrifice years of happi-
ness for the sake of one mortal. Not q
stone was left unturned in his untiring
search for her, but to no avail No one
could be found to give him one ray of
hope as regards her whereabouts. But
he found her at last-found her new
woman, even lovelier than he had ever
seen her.
What strange, impelling influence led
him to visit San Quentin he will never
know. Was it mere whim, fancy, or
, was it the hand of fate striving to make
amends for past discourtesies2
San Quentin is small town, situated
on the bay of San Francisco. 1t took him
but short time to ascertain that there
was nothing there to interest his atten-
ton. But stay-thc States prison is To-
Gated in this small village. Another train
did not arrive for two hours; why not
pass the the time there2
1t was the extravagant desire of o
morbid temperament. He had no idea
that the sights there would interest him
any more than the commonplace realities
of the village itself.
He repaired to the prison. The warden
was very kind and urbane-he could 60
through the prison if he so desired. An
usher who escorted him through the diff
ferent departments explained every point
in the workings of the place, but he
listened indiffernntly: he felt that not one